The Library
by Nationless
Summary: Arthur has been running a library out of his home for nearly two years. He has everything from classic dystopias, to anthologies on modern art. But one day, he gets an order from Francis Bonnefoy, whose appetite for books may possibly exceed even the Librarian's.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **All I have to say is: I had to do it.

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya. The books mentioned are property of their respective authors.

~X~

It had all started off as a normal Sunday. Francis had gone to visit his cousin, Matthew, like he typically did every few weeks. Of course, choosing the middle of the semester to visit was apparently a bit of a mistake.

"How's the extra reading going?" Francis asked, taking another sip of his coffee.

Matthew shrugged, brushing a few strands of dark blond hair from his eyes. "I'm supposed to be getting the book today," he answered.

A small smile teased the corner of his lips. Knowing Matthew that meant he likely wouldn't even be seeing the book for another week. He was the epitome of bad luck. "And when is it due?"

The Canadian almost smirked. "Tomorrow."

Francis chuckled. "How very like you," he complimented. "Do you know enough to fake your way through the discussion, at least? You know a good GPA means good pay. I'd hate for you to end up homeless because you didn't read the book."

"Well…"

Before Matthew could answer properly, there was a soft knock at the door. Almost languidly, Matthew stood up to answer it. There was always a certain understated grace with the way he moved, Francis noted with satisfaction.

"Your timing is as perfect as ever," he commented to whoever was on the other side.

The Frenchman glanced over to see a young man with messy blond hair and horrendously thick eyebrows reach into his bag and hand a book to Francis' cousin.

"Yours is still terrible," the man remarked with a heavy English accent. "I'm assuming you need to read this by tomorrow, correct?"

"Eh…" Matthew chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. Apparently, he was unwilling to admit it to this strange Englishman.

"Thought so. Be especially careful with this one; he's a rare edition." The man pulled out a sheet of paper, making a quick mark on it before sliding it back into his backpack.

Matthew smiled gratefully. "You're a lifesaver. Thanks for getting it here so quick."

The stranger nodded before turning to leave. "Call me when you're finished with him," he said before walking away without a proper 'goodbye'.

Matthew closed the door, sighing with relief. "I swear, if that guy wasn't around, I'd be a goner," he muttered to himself as he made his way back to Francis.

The Frenchman quirked a brow in confusion. People rarely visited Matthew. And he gave him a book, of all things? "And who is he?"

The Canadian student snickered. "We just call him the Librarian. Supposedly he's ridiculously rich, and spends all his money on books that he just lends out to people. Hell, I don't even know his name and he's entrusting me with this supposedly rare book. He's a bit of a nut job, you know?"

Francis scrutinized the spine. "It looks old, so it's possible… Why are you reading 'Things Fall Apart'?"

"Something about African literature. I don't know." Matthew shrugged and began to page through the worn book. "It's for that Modern Lit class. That's why a lot of us go to him; the previous readers all leave notes, so I can definitely fake it through a discussion without actually having to read it."

Francis held out a hand. "May I?"

Easily, Matt handed it over. "Just be careful," he warned. "Any damage and I'll have to find another copy of this exact book. Michelle accidentally spilled coffee on one of his 'Lord of the Flies' copies, and she ended up spending fifty bucks on a 1958 edition."

Carefully, Francis began to flip through, noting the amount of pencil markings. Sometimes, it was a handful of comments in the margins, but most often it was the underlining of a series of phrases. He could see how this would be the perfect way to fool the system, providing the previous readers were intelligent.

With a faint smile, he handed it back to his cousin. "Please tell me you aren't turning into your step-brother," he mock-begged. "I don't know if I could live with two of you."

Matthew laughed quietly. "I'm just doing the bs thing for the discussion. I'm going to actually read it when I have to do the book review."

"And when is that due?" Francis asked.

The bespectacled blond flashed him a smile. "Two days."

Francis toasted him with the coffee mug. "You, my dear, are truly the face of our future."

Matthew's grin widened. "Maybe you should give him a call. I think I have the number somewhere…"

The Frenchman quirked a brow. "And why would I want to call this crazy Librarian? I have plenty of books at home."

"You have too many books," Matthew corrected to himself before pulling a scrap of paper from his pocket. "But knowing you… I think you'd like what he has. You're into all of that reading between the lines crap, and his books usually have more of that than I actually thought possible."

Francis gasped, faux-scandalized. "Too many books? Impossible."

He rolled his eyes, passing the paper to the older blond. "Why you didn't become a writer, I will never understand," Matthew muttered under his breath.

After a moment's hesitation, Francis accepted it. Though, he was unable to admit the reason he never became a writer. Even to his dear cousin.

~X~

It took a few days for Francis to convince himself to call. To be honest, the whole idea sounded completely ridiculous. Besides, he had an entire shelf full of books he had yet to finish. And yet…

He drummed his fingers against the windowsill as he waited for the other line to be answered. Five rings, he promised himself. If no one answered within five rings, he would hang up and pretend he never called.

Only three rings in, and the phone was answered.

"Hello, you've reached the Library. How can I help you?"

Francis completely froze for a moment, before registering that the mysterious Librarian had spoken. He sounded almost breathless, Francis noted with surprise. "Ah, hello," he replied meekly.

"What do you need?" the Brit on the other line asked.

That was certainly an odd question, Francis thought. Not what do you want, but what do you need. A subtle difference, but a key one. "Something grand," he replied, keeping it vague. Besides, who didn't want something that was wonderful? It was common sense.

The other man hummed in thought. "That's more than a little hazy."

Francis started rapping his fingertips against the windowsill again. "I don't know what you have. It's difficult to be specific when you don't know what the possibilities are."

The other man laughed. "I have everything," he promised. "Well, almost everything," he corrected, slightly abashed. "You want grand… A classic, perhaps? Or do you have a more contemporary taste? I know I have a few fantastic history volumes lying around."

Francis' brow furrowed slightly, a bit overwhelmed. "Is there anything in particular you recommend?" After all, you could tell a lot about a person by the books they liked. Obviously this one couldn't be judged simply by the books they owned.

The Brit paused for a moment, likely thinking. "Me… I liked 'Brave New World'. Aldous Huxley. Classic dystopia, very unhappy ending, in the surface sense. I found it a lovely read."

"Dystopias never end happily," he contradicted absentmindedly.

"Not at their shallow level, at least. Well, with the faint exception of 'Lord of the Flies'. The shallow ending of that was rather fortunate."

Francis grimaced. "With that perspective, you could say that about '1984'," he argued.

"'1984'?" the Librarian repeated, astonished. "Are you kidding me? There was nothing even remotely happy about that book!"

"He loved Julia," he insisted stubbornly. Really, he knew the Brit was right. But that wasn't going to stop him from debating his point.

"Winston merely lusted after her," he dismissed. "Lust never lasts; that's why he broke."

Francis scoffed. "Anyone would break after that."

"Do you want a book or not?" the stranger on the phone finally snapped. "I could argue with you all day about this—and you know I'm right—but I have deliveries to make."

The Frenchman almost deflated at that. He had been almost enjoying their banter. It was difficult to debate dystopia when one of your best friends would rather read straight history, and the other read nearly nothing but sappy romance. "'Brave New World', then," he agreed.

"Name and address?"

Francis paused. "Why?" he asked skeptically.

"So I know where to bring the book, smartass," he said. "I can get it to you tonight, but I need to know where I'm supposed to take it."

For a moment, he didn't respond. Was he really about to trust some stranger with where he lived? And for what, some book he could pick up from the public library? It seemed rather stupid.

But exciting. Having a book personally delivered to him… Likely a well-cared for book, though heavily used… It was tempting.

Quickly, he rattled off the requested information before the Englishman thanked him, and promptly hung up.

Francis looked at the phone for a few more seconds before returning it to the cradle. He had the feeling that Matthew was going to be right about this Librarian character.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Oh wow, that was quite the response ^^; Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and started following The Library; and thank you to everyone who simply read it as well.

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya. The books mentioned are property of their respective authors.

~X~

The black bag slung over Arthur's shoulder was heavy today. He hated when people ordered those heavy, textbook-esque works, and today he was supposed to deliver two of them.

Granted, today was a busy day anyways. It was unusual to have three deliveries and seven pick ups all in the same day. Frankly, it was nearly ridiculous. He only had thirteen steady customers; did they really all need his service at the same time?

He quickly dropped off the traditional medicine book to Kiku Honda, a Japanese exchange student, and a detailed history of military aircraft to one Alfred F. Jones.

Kiku was a simple customer: he'd call, ask for exactly what he wanted, and return the book quickly with no issues. The only downside was that the quiet Japanese man never left any notes. There was never any indication that he had gone through it.

Alfred on the other hand… He was a wildcard. Orders would come in completely at random, staying out for months. Then the American would not call again for an extended period of time. Most of the notes Alfred made the librarian found a bit shallow, and annoying. Though, every now and then he would find a brilliant insight that Arthur would fawn over for weeks.

Ordinarily, Arthur would drop off the last book before he began to retrieve the books that were ready to be turned in. However, the address Francis Bonnefoy had given him was on the opposite side of the city. It would be more prudent to pick up the books that he knew were in the area before making the trek.

Especially when one considered that he had to walk everywhere.

In quick succession, he retrieved his books from Matthew, Toris, Lukas, Heracles, and Natalya. Unfortunately, three of the five had checked out those ridiculously heavy anthology-like books. Times like this, he regretted selling his car to get his hands on the collection of twentieth century muckraker's novels.

At the same time, complaining about it would get him nothing. It certainly wouldn't bring Alice, his little commuter car, back.

Now, he had to lug the large collection of books across town.

Once he finally reached the address that Francis had given him, it was nearly six in the evening, and his shoulders were killing him. It had been almost three hours since he had left home, and he was frankly exhausted.

Though, be that as it may, he had to keep going. Faking a smile—it was a new customer, after all—he rang the doorbell on the modest, one story house.

Faintly, he heard a little bit of crashing about before the door opened, revealing a rather disheveled blond with long, wavy hair.

For a moment, he just stared at Arthur, as if unsure of why he was here.

Arthur cleared his throat, reaching into his bag. "Francis Bonnefoy?"

Slowly, he nodded. "You're the Librarian," he said, sighing. He opened the door wider, straightening his shirt. "Come in."

Nodding his thanks, Arthur entered, finding a small clutter of books spilling from one of the other rooms. "You were at Matthew's on Sunday," he said, unsure if he was supposed to be making casual conversation with the Frenchman.

"He's my cousin," Francis explained, brushing his hair from his eyes.

With a relieved sigh, Arthur hefted the heavy bag from his shoulder. "Dear god, Lukas needs to read smaller books," he muttered to himself.

After a few more moments of awkward silence, Arthur pulled the book out of his bag, as well as a small stack of papers. "You've never borrowed from me, correct?" he asked. "I'm going to have to go over the basic rules with you before I can give you 'Brave New World'. Do you have a few minutes, or was I interrupting something?"

The Frenchman settled himself into one of the chairs, motioning for Arthur to sit in another. "Just going over '1984' again," he replied dismissively. "You know, you may say there was nothing pleasant about that book, but I found the fact that Winston was so aware of the world around him rather refreshing." That remark was accompanied with a quick grin.

Instantly, Arthur was reminded of the overwhelming urge to punch him in the face. He had that feeling when he was bickering with this man over the phone. "As much as I'd like to prove you wrong, I have other people to visit today, and I'm running out of light."

One by one, he started to lay out the pages. "You'll need to sign all of these," Arthur explained. "Now, a few things that you'll need to know… These books are mine. I purchased them for my own use, and I'm merely lending them to you. I expect you to treat them with respect.

"That being said, I appreciate any comments you have on the book. If you want, you are allowed to mark the book _with pencil only_." That point was punctuated with a glare. "If I find any pen or highlighter in my books, you're going to have to buy me another copy. Same edition, same year, same everything."

Francis listened, looking vaguely amused as he listened to the Englishman.

"On the note of destruction of my books," he continued. "If they're ruined in any way, the same rule applies. I'll need a new copy."

"You have a lot of rules," Francis noted.

Hearing that, Arthur blushed with chagrin. "That's really all of them," he defended. "Respect, no pen or highlighter, and be careful with them. You can keep them for as long as you want, and keep as many books as you want. Really, it's simple."

Francis appeared to be fighting a grin. "Well, if that's all, then… And I just sign these?"

Arthur nodded once, keeping his face blank. Really, this guy got on his nerves in a way few people did.

"Arthur Kirkland," the Frenchman murmured thoughtfully. Blindly, he groped around the table, looking for a pen. "So why a library? Seems an odd profession for someone as young as you."

A half-grimace turned Arthur's lips. He didn't like when they delved into his personal life so quickly. "It's just a hobby," he replied. "I happen to inherit a lot of books from my grandfather, and I hate to see them go unread."

Francis chuckled softly as he signed the papers with a flourish. "I know how that feels. But, if this is just a hobby, what do you do?"

Impatiently, Arthur snatched the papers, making sure they were in order. "Francis, I don't have time to chat," he said. "I need to collect a few more books, and I'd really hate to be out when it gets cold."

He sighed, seemingly disappointed. "At least let me walk you to your car, then," Francis offered. "Just another minute of your time."

Now, Arthur was openly glaring at him. "No thank you." He grabbed his bag, frowning at the weight, before heading towards the door. "When you finish with 'Brave New World', give me a call and I'll come pick it up," Arthur instructed.

Francis watched, but made no move to follow him. He sighed softly, but nodded. "I suppose I'll be calling you tomorrow, then," he replied.

Arthur sincerely hoped not, he decided as he walked out. There was something about this new customer that had him feeling on edge.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes: **Sorry this chapter took so long… I've had a case of writers block these last couple of days. Hopefully I'll manage to keep up with updates from now on.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, followed, and/or favorited The Library. I'm so happy to see that you guys enjoy this.

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya. The books mentioned in this are property of their respective authors.

~X~

Francis didn't manage to call Arthur back in two days like he had planned. He ended up reading the novel three times, making a detailed comparison to Orwell's work in the margins. It was easy to see why Arthur was so fond of it. Something about this dystopia was so different from the others he found. A sense of repression through pleasure, instead of by force.

It was pretty fascinating to Francis. It opened up a whole world of possibilities in the sense of how people could be controlled.

The first time he went through it, he noticed one note that brought him pause.

Near the line: "Everyone belongs to everyone else", in tiny, sharply angled lettering, someone had written "If one belongs to everyone, it would then be impossible to belong to oneself."

He didn't know why that made him stop. The point wasn't particularly gripping, nor insightful. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about it.

But there was something about the wording that caught his attention. It was a simple idea, but the way it was phrased made him think.

Francis always wanted to be able to do that. He wanted to pen words that would make people stop and consider. Of course, that likely wouldn't be happening anytime in the near future, if ever.

Finally, four days after ordering the book, he was calling Arthur again.

It took the Brit seven rings to answer this time. "Hello, you've reached the Library," Arthur murmured with a yawn. "How can I help you?" The whole greeting sounded slow, as if the librarian had been sleeping not moments ago.

The blond checked the clock on his wall. It was well after noon. "Did you just wake up?" Francis asked. A small grin teased the corners of his lips.

There was a loud clattering, as if Arthur had dropped his phone entirely. After a few moments of listening to the Englishman fumble with it, he finally responded. "It was a late night!" he defended. Arthur huffed audibly before returning to his 'hobby'. "What do you want?"

Francis couldn't help but chuckle. The irritation made him seem even more adorable, like a child. "Something less depressing," he replied. "You seem to have a good taste; do you have any recommendations?"

He could almost hear the scowl from across the line. "I'm not one for 'happy' books," he retorted. "But…" Arthur hesitated for a moment. "'The Blue Sword' was good. Robin McKinnley, purely fantasy. Beautiful wording, and a good setting."

At that, the Frenchman frowned. He wasn't much of a fantasy reader. His tastes lay closer to reality. Added to that, the title sounded uninteresting, and the author's didn't sound terribly familiar. Yet, he found himself saying, "I look forward to it. I'll see you later."

"Of course," Arthur muttered before hanging up the phone.

Francis sighed as he did the same. Why on earth did he just agree to read something he wasn't even interested in?

"I suppose it can't be that bad," he told himself as he picked 'Brave New World' up one more time. Likely, Arthur wouldn't be around for quite a while. Perhaps he could find something in this book to dispute.

Besides, wasn't that his entire reason for calling up the librarian in the first place?

~X~

Once again, Francis lounged about his cousin's apartment, coffee in hand. Matthew slowly flipped through a textbook, skimming through the pages.

It had been almost a week since Francis had returned 'The Blue Sword'. In a word, he hated it. And he had made that fact quite clear to the librarian. They had shared a wild, colorfully-worded debate on the subject that lasted nearly an hour.

Arthur had not accepted his phone calls since.

Languidly, Matthew flipped another page. Silence suited him, even in the presence of others.

Yet, after they had been sitting together for nearly an hour, Matt finally spoke up. "Did you ever get a hold of the Librarian?" he asked. His eyes flickered up to meet the Frenchman's.

Francis pressed his lips together. "Arthur," he said. "His name is Arthur." Even after their semi-recent altercation, he smiled almost dazedly as he remembered seeing that name for the first time. So formal that paperwork was.

An almost amused grin twitched at the corners of Matthew's mouth. "I take it that it went well then." He raised his mug in a small salute.

Francis scoffed. "No. I actually think he hates me."

The Canadian finally set his textbook aside, scrutinizing his cousin. "You like him, then," he stated. A weary seriousness weighed his voice down.

Now a scowl replaced Francis' smile. Of course Matthew would jump to that conclusion. He always had a problem with falling for the ones who hated him. Arthur was different though. "Of course not," he replied. "I just like to prove that he's wrong. Maybe he does own a library, but that doesn't mean he knows books."

Matthew adjusted his glasses, never looking away from Francis. "Maybe you both are avid readers, but it doesn't mean you have the same tastes," he said. "I heard he was one of those romantic types. Al said he reads a lot of Shakespearean tragedies and the like. And you…" He smiled wryly. "Francis, you're pretty cynical. Say what you want, but I know you scoff at romance novels."

"They're terribly written," he retorted. "Especially that last thing he sent me… My god, it was like the romance was a last second edition!"

Matt pursed his lips, studying the Frenchman. "I think you're just a cynic," he returned simply.

Francis rolled his eyes, taking another sip of his overly-sweetened coffee. "I'm not cynical; I'm honest," he muttered. "Just because most of you see love at a glance doesn't mean it's there."

There was a brief pause as Matthew picked up his Psychology textbook again. "All right, Francis," he allowed. Still, he smiled slightly, as if he knew that he hit a nerve.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes:** Hello again, and thanks for reading ^.^ Also a huge thank you to everyone who favorited, reviewed, and/or started following The Library.

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya. All the books mentioned are property of their respective authors.

~X~

Once again, Arthur woke up to a ringing phone. He groaned, groping blindly for the makeshift alarm. Blearily, he opened his eyes, squinting to read the caller ID.

Francis Bonnefoy.

Scowling, he automatically sent it to voicemail. "You'd think he'd get the hint," he muttered before rolling over to try and go back to sleep. It had been well over a week since Arthur stopped accepting the Frenchman's calls; the fact that he was still calling was beginning to take a desperate tone.

Sunlight was fighting to get through Arthur's heavy curtains. It was likely late afternoon at this point, but he really didn't care. He had no work to do today. It was his day off, and no one had called about borrowing from him today. Well, no one except for Francis.

More the point, his writers block had kept him up until very near dawn this morning. All his inspiration had run dry, no matter how many books he read. It was beginning to seem a bit hopeless.

Unfortunately, after maybe an hour of just lying there, Arthur realized that sleep had decided to elude him. With a sigh, he stretched and reached for his phone once again.

It was only two in the afternoon.

He cursed softly as he slowly got up, running a hand through his unruly hair. Arthur considered is options, a haze of sleep still draped over his thoughts.

'The Jungle' could always use a reread. Though, the same could be said for 'Animal Farm', or 'Hamlet', or even 'Romeo and Juliet'. Hell, everything could be read once again. A few of the books had been recently checked out. Perhaps someone made a brilliant note in one of them.

And that's how Arthur found himself in the sitting room, with 'Brave New World' in hand. For about five minutes, he stared at the novel with disdain, as if mere contact with Francis had utterly tainted the entire thing.

Yet, he finally brought himself to open it, and was instantly faced with a plethora of new notes, written in a light pencil. He looked at it in shock; rarely had anyone written so much in one of his books.

As he scanned the handwritten script, Arthur found something rather interesting. He was certain that the penmanship belonged to Francis, but there was a way that everything was written that seemed odd. There was something that seemed to be missing.

After the first half-dozen pages, he figured it out. The words were cold, emotionless. It was a calculated note taking that was so unlike the bright, passionate way that the Frenchman spoke.

It was more than a little disconcerting. The way the phrases were strung together was accurate, and insightful, but… It all sounded so heartless.

And then he noticed that one of Arthur's own notes had been circled. Below it, Francis had written: 'Captivating wording, with a multitude of undertones. Yet, it lacks insight'.

The librarian sighed as he put the book down. "Captivating, huh?" he murmured to himself.

He allowed himself to sit still for a moment longer, before returning once again to his computer. Maybe this time he could get something useful.

~X~

He had been wrong. Six hours staring at a blank screen, and Arthur managed to get nothing done. It was getting beyond frustrating, to the point where he just wanted to give up entirely.

Fortunately, he had his distractions. After a six hour shift at Madeline's Paperworks, Arthur was called for a single delivery to Matthew's apartment. The title he requested was becoming eerily familiar.

Still, after stopping by his home, he was running out to the middle of the city once again. He prided himself on quick work for his precious library.

When Matthew opened the door, he looked a bit more put-together than usual. Normally requests from the quiet Canadian involved ridiculously last-minute homework, which meant that Matt was a bit disheveled when he answered.

"Thanks for getting here so quickly," he greeted.

He nodded once, reaching into his bag. Arthur frowned slightly as he looked at the well-worn cover. "Another book for class?" he asked. "'Brave New World'… It doesn't seem like your type of work, if I may be blunt."

Matthew smiled gently as he took the book out of the librarian's hands. "My cousin absolutely loved it," he confided. "I thought I'd give it a shot, you know? See if it's really worth the hype."

Ice-cold realization shocked him as he remembered. Matthew and Francis were related. He was still more than a bit peeved at the Frenchman for systematically tearing one of his favorite plots to complete shreds. Arthur didn't quite trust himself to keep his head around one of his relatives.

The Brit pressed his lips into a firm line as he closed up his backpack. "Call me when you're done." Almost mechanically, he turned to walk away from the Canadian.

"Arthur…" Matthew started, catching his attention.

The librarian paused, looking back at the university student. Up until now, he had been fairly certain that Matthew didn't actually know his name.

He shuffled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know Francis comes off a bit strong, but… Don't be too hard on him ok?" Matthew paused, examining the book's spine. "He's a good guy. It's just… He forgets that other people have feelings too."

A slight grimace turned his lips. 'Forgets other people have feelings'? Arthur was pretty sure people like that didn't actually exist. Though, he supposed Francis seemed to fit that description if anyone did. "Matthew, that doesn't sound like a good guy in my book," he replied. "Frankly, Francis doesn't seem like an even decent man."

Matthew shrugged, brushing his hair from his forehead. "Not all the good guys are charming princes," he said. "Sometimes, the best person is a thief."

For a moment, Arthur just stared at him. He had never had a conversation with Matthew before, and now… Now, he kind of saw why. There was a way in which he spoke that was a bit too similar to the way a book would read. A bit too similar to the way Francis spoke. "Those who are careless with others are the worst type of people," he countered.

Now, he smiled slightly, stepping back into his apartment. "Just give him a chance, and I'm sure you'll find Francis to be nothing short of considerate," Matthew promised.

Arthur sighed, ruffling through his already messy hair. "Fine," he finally relented. "I'll… I'll call him back."

Matthew nodded once, a small frown replacing his grin. "Be careful with my cousin, all right? He means well, I'm sure of it. I just… I don't want him to get hurt."

He quirked a brow, but didn't ask. Instead, he nodded before walking down the hall of the apartment complex.

Apparently the Frenchman was full of mysteries. Though, it would seem that his cousin had even more.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes: **Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, and/or favorited~ You mean the world to me

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya. All books mentioned are property of their respective authors

~X~

True to his word, the next day Arthur dialed the Frenchman. Regardless of Francis' comments, and notes in 'Brave New World', he was still a reader. And if he was a reader, then it would be impossible for the man to be all bad.

Or, so he tried to convince himself as he listened to the phone ring. Memories of the handwritten notes in Huxley's novel were still fresh in his mind. He wrote like a critical editor, and not an avid reader.

"_Allo_?"

Arthur bit down on his lip. He specifically picked this time of day to call, in the hopes that he could just leave voice mail. It was the middle of the day; why the hell was Francis answering his phone? Did the man not work or something? "Erm… Hello," he managed to reply. It was a minor struggle to keep himself from tapping his pencil on the table.

There was a brief pause from both sides of the line. "Arthur?" Francis asked after a moment.

Automatically, the Brit scowled. Likely this was going to be the worst decision he made this entire year. "Yes."

"_Vraiment__?_ To what do I owe this phone call? I wasn't expecting to hear from you."

Now he was fighting to keep himself from huffing in irritation. "I, uh… I called to, well…" His brow furrowed as he tried to force himself to say it. "I called to apologize."

Those words felt like razor-sharp blades tearing through his pride. To be lowered to the point where he had to say them… It was humiliating.

Francis took his time replying. Faintly, Arthur thought he heard a soft ding, followed by the opening and closing of a door. "I'm afraid I don't accept," he finally replied.

Arthur's jaw dropped. How dare he…?! "Listen here, you bloody twat," he growled. "I took time out of my day to call you—which I shouldn't have to because this whole thing is _your_ fault—and apologize. Mind you, I never apologize for anything, do you understand? _Never_. Not even to my father after—" He forcibly broke off his sentence. That was something Arthur had never told anyone, and he had just about to spill his secret to a near-stranger?

Embarrassment tainted his complexion bright red as he scrambled for a cover. "A-after I ran away."

Arthur tried to focus on his breathing. The only person who knew what actually happened was Alfred. And that was only because he had been in the car as well.

Now the silence that fell upon them was heavy. Suffocating. Helplessly, Arthur bit down on his thumb. If Francis said anything… There were only so many evasions he had on hand. None of them were as convincing as his first attempt.

"I was actually going to apologize myself," the Frenchman replied evenly. "Just because I think your books are terrible doesn't mean I can freely insult them. Though you really overreacted to 'The Blue Sword'."

As if he needed the reminder. Internally, though, he breathed a sigh of relief. "It's a good book," he returned. "You just don't understand fine writing."

"Then enlighten me, Monsieur Librarian." Arthur could hear the grin in Francis' voice. "Tell me about your exquisite taste in literature."

His scowl intensified, if possible. Now he was going to mock him as well? This call was obviously a mistake. Still…

"I'm sure you've read it already, but 'Animal Farm' would be a good companion piece to 'Brave New World'. Your cousin Matthew informed me that you enjoyed it immensely."

"It's on my bookshelf," Francis dismissed. "I found it to be a rather unexciting read, and more than a bit heavy on ideology."

Arthur scoffed. "It's Orwellian. What did you expect?" He sighed as he tried to think of another title.

From what he had gathered, Francis seemed to have a thing for dystopia. He liked Orwell and Huxley. If 'Blue Sword' was any indication, romance and fantasy was a bad choice. That easily eliminated a good portion of his library. And if he was looking for a story instead of an informative piece, that eliminated another decent chunk of his books.

"What about 'The Jungle'?" he tried. "Upton Sinclair. I have a 1905 edition. Very similar to '1984' in theme, but it's much more graphic."

"I read that in high school," Francis replied disdainfully. "Meat packing in turn of the century Chicago… Disturbing, but not even remotely '1984'. That was a commentary on totalitarian governments, not about a small section of American business."

Now a grin spread across Arthur's lips. How wrong he was. Now was his chance to prove definitively that he was better informed in novels than the other blond. "You must have read the 1906 edition," he said. "They're entirely different. So much was edited out and changed that they're practically different books."

That seemed to have caught Francis' interest. "But it's still the same story," he replied. Cautionary hope tempered his voice.

Arthur twirled the pencil between his fingers as he spoke. It was always refreshing to bring this sort of little-known information to light. "In it's essence, I suppose. 'The Jungle' is actually an attack on big business, and the struggles of immigrant workers from that time period. What you read was the version that the fat cats in industry wanted you to read."

Distantly, Arthur heard a string of shouted French curses from Francis' end, and then the Frenchman responding in equally loud tones. Arthur's eyes widened slightly as he listened to the brief banter between Francis and the stranger, unsure if he should stay on the line or not.

"I'll take it," Francis whispered after the shouting died down. "I'll just pick it up at your home when I'm off work."

Wait, what? "That's not how it works," Arthur retorted. "I come to you; don't you dare show up—"

"Au revoir," he nearly sung before hanging up the phone.

Any hint of joy Arthur may have gleaned from knowing more about Sinclair's novel than Francis dissipated the instant he said that he would be coming to Arthur's home.

He took a deep breath as he tried to convince himself that there was no way the idiot Frenchman was going to be showing up at his door today. He didn't even know where Arthur lived!

The voice in the back of his mind reminding him that there were no other Arthur Kirkland's in the phonebook certainly wasn't helping to calm his nerves.

Cautiously, he looked about his sitting room. If anyone were to come in here… That was the worst thing that could happen at this point.

In the end, he ended up going on a search for 'The Jungle'. Even if the possibility of Francis showing up was 0.001%, Arthur was sure as hell not going to let him past the front door. It would be an abomination to let the near-stranger into his sanctuary.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Notes:** Ok, so I've had a few people asking about some background for these two. Unfortunately, all I can say at the moment is that we'll get there when we get there. It's no fun to just give everything away at the start, right? But I do intend to make sure I get it all explained in due time. Hopefully you'll be patient with me.

Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, and/or favorited The Library

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya. All books mentioned are property of their respective authors

~X~

Figuring out where the librarian lived wasn't terribly difficult. The original plan had been to simply find a directory. However, a serendipitous run in with Alfred in the shop provided all the information he needed. Apparently he had known the Brit for years, and was all too happy to pass the address along to his step-cousin.

The only comment Alfred made was how it was about time Arthur made some friends.

However, it was surprisingly difficult to find Arthur's home. He had expected it to be some small rental, not quite an apartment, but the next step up.

Arthur's home actually lay on the outskirts of the city, alongside all the other older houses. If Francis were to pick somewhere he could see the Englishman living in, this would not be it.

A black, wrought iron fence ran the perimeter, allowing only glimpses of the well-kept lawn and the imposing white structure. The place looked more like a historical monument than a place someone actually lived in. The shutters were painted a macabre black, matching the tiles of the roof and the bars on the windows themselves.

Still, he slowly drove up the winding driveway, noticing the rose bushes that lined the porch.

Francis never pegged the librarian to be the type to actually tend to a lawn, much less flowers. Though, he supposed with a house like this, it was possible there were people hired to do that for him.

Somehow, though, that didn't seem to fit either. Arthur seemed to be the type of person who valued his privacy; keeping help would not exactly go along with that assessment.

But, wasn't it possible that the tough, recluse aura Arthur gave off was just an act? It was entirely possible that he was a rich kid who was waited on hand and foot. Really, Francis didn't know anything about him.

It was thoughts like these that plagued him as he approached the door. Unlike the rest of the house, which was starkly black and white, it was painted a pale shade of blue.

Such an odd detail, he thought as he rang the doorbell. Chimes echoed hollowly throughout the house, loud enough for Francis to hear them.

After several moments, the Brit opened the door. His honey toned hair was messier than usual, and his features looked a bit paler. He was careful to keep it closed enough that Francis couldn't peer inside.

"Somehow, I get the sense that you aren't going to let me in," he stated. "I was honestly hoping to see your collection."

Emerald eyes swept over him. Suspicion seemed to permeate his very gaze. "I told you not to come," he replied. "That isn't how this system works. You don't come to my home."

Francis shrugged. "You'll find that I don't take to systems very well. May I come in?"

Arthur looked back inside his home. "It's a mess," he replied. Through the door, he held out a relatively new book. "Here's 'The Jungle'. 1905, Upton Sinclair. Now, if you don't mind…"

The Frenchman placed his hand on the door, preventing Arthur from closing it. There was no way the Brit was going to get off so easily. "Just another moment of your time," he insisted. "I'm wondering if I could borrow a second book from you. Preferably nineteenth century, with…" He paused, trying to think of something to say. "Societal issues. But not anything gory like this one."

Emerald eyes narrowed into a glare. "Now you're just making things up to get into my house."

He grinned widely. Frankly, being caught in the lie that easily didn't surprise him. He actually had expected it. "If you would let me in, I wouldn't have to," he countered.

Again, Arthur checked the interior. "Today isn't a good day," he hedged. "If you're so insistent on seeing it, I'm free tomorrow afternoon."

For a moment, Francis tried to remember if he was supposed to run the shop tomorrow. Then, he realized that he didn't actually care. If need be, both Antonio and Bella were more than capable of taking his place. "That sounds lovely. I'll make sure to finish this book so we can, ah… discuss it."

Arthur handed the novel over, still scowling. "Just don't try any ridiculous tactics. I won't stand for any useless bickering on my time off."

That caused him to chuckle. That was pretty much begging Francis to start an inane argument. It was practically necessary to do it now. "We'll have to see. Your narrow mind takes almost everything as ridiculous if it's not your view point."

Arthur's thin lips set into a hard line. "Don't you dare call me narrow minded, you French brat."

Francis quirked a brow. He hadn't been called a brat in well over fifteen years. "Really? That's the best you can come up with?"

His cheeks flushed a pale pink. "Shut up git," he muttered, trying to force the door closed.

"Your British charm is showing," Francis teased, overpowering the other's attempts.

Now, Arthur's eyes flashed dangerously. "You know what? I'm actually busy tomorrow. Don't come over. In fact…" He gave a particularly hard shove, forcing some give from Francis. "Don't ever come back to my home again."

Francis quirked a brow, surprised by the violent response. He couldn't quite figure out if he touched on a single nerve that was extremely volatile, or if he just hit several minor ones at the same time. Still, the Frenchman couldn't help but to try and push his luck a little bit farther. "But how could I, in good conscience, leave you to be all by your lonesome self? That would be a tragedy in itself."

Somehow, Arthur seemed to garner enough strength to slam the door, despite Francis' retaliation. The last thing Francis saw of the librarian was a soul-piercing glare that would shatter a lesser man.

Francis was left standing on the porch, wondering exactly what he said to make Arthur so upset. Not that he cared too terribly much, he assured himself. It was just curiosity.

~X~

As luck would have it, apparently it was Francis' turn to run the café tomorrow afternoon. The instant he found that out, he got Antonio on the line.

"Tonio, I really need you to take my shift tomorrow," he practically begged before the Spaniard could even say 'hello'.

"Francis? Why, are you sick?" The worry in his voice was so palpable, Francis was sure he could feel it even from miles away.

He took his lower lip between his teeth as he tried to come up with an explanation. "Not exactly… But, I have a date tomorrow, and if I missed it…" Yes, it was stretching the truth to the point of breaking. However, it was also the best chance Francis had of getting his friend to cover his shift.

"You have a date?" All the sudden, Antonio's voice shot up to nearly euphoric.

It was actually kind of pathetic that Francis getting a date, real or no, was cause for actual celebration.

"Who with? What's their name? When can I meet them? Oh, are they cute? Knowing you though," Antonio trailed off, giggling.

Francis sighed, trying to come up with answers. "Well, the thing is, he doesn't actually know it's a date yet."

Stony silence came from the other line.

"Anton?" Francis asked, thinking that either the other didn't hear him, or had lost signal.

"Francis," he replied. Caution slowed his voice as he continued. "Don't go building up the relationship without the other knowing. I don't want you to have a repeat of Roderich."

Embarrassment colored his cheeks as he remembered. After the disaster with the young pianist, Francis didn't leave his home for over a month. "It's not like that," he quickly promised. "Arthur's different."

And he was. Dear lord, Arthur was so different from anyone Francis had ever met, much less deign to see socially. His teeth were crooked, his manners were rough, and, my god, did he have a temper. The abrasive Brit was pretty much the opposite of anyone Francis had ever befriended.

"Just think before you act this time," Antonio insisted. "You know I want the best for you, but I don't want you to get heartbroken every single time love looks your way."

Francis scowled. As if he'd allow that to happen. "Don't worry, mon ami," he reassured the Spaniard. "It will all be ok in the end."

Antonio sighed. "I'll take your shift. What time?"

A relieved smile curved Francis' lips. "Noon to six. Thank you so much, Anton. I would be lost without you around."

"Just let me know how your 'not actually a date' date goes," Antonio replied. The grin was back in his voice, which Francis was thankful for.

"You know I will," he promised.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes:** Thank you to everyone who read, favorited, started following, and/or reviewed ^.^ You guys make the motivation for this story so much easier

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya. All books mentioned are property of their respective authors/

~X~

Arthur packed up his backpack at nine in the morning. He had two books to pick up, and one to deliver. Secretly, he hoped that this would take all day so he had an excuse to not see Francis today.

At the same time, he was well aware that he was starting his rounds almost six hours ahead of his usual schedule. Likely, he would be home before noon.

He had been up all night, alternatively typing away furiously and trying to bring a bit of order to this old house. However, once the sun rose over the horizon, Arthur realized that only one of those had been successful, and gave up on the institution of cleaning. It wasn't like he cared what Francis thought of the place anyways. He didn't even want the Frenchman to be there.

Yet, he still found himself setting out at that obscenely early hour to pick up a collection of Edgar Allen Poe, and one of those old history books Arthur valued so much. He had his doubts on whether Ludwig would home, but he knew at least Dmitri would have set his borrowed volume out for Arthur.

All in all, it was an irritatingly quick day. All the work was close enough to home that he barely ventured three miles away before turning back. It was barely noon by the time he returned.

With a sigh, he returned to the seat in front of his computer, staring at a the blinking cursor. Almost six hours of frenzied writing had resulted in over fifty pages of… complete shit.

Within seconds, he deleted every single word of it. There was no way Annette would have taken a flight to the States and become a stripper when modeling failed her. It was so outside her character that the fact that Arthur had written it was blasphemy.

Yet… He needed to get her out of Belgium. The plot couldn't move forward if she stayed there. Novels don't happen if the main character never moves on.

His eyes didn't leave the bright screen until the chimes of the doorbell echoed through the house. Suddenly, his gaze flashed to the corner of his computer screen to see that it was almost three in the afternoon.

For a moment, he just stared at it, wondering how he wasted almost three hours staring at a blank screen, and not doing anything. And then the doorbell rang again, and he remembered that he had company. Very unwanted company, at that.

Still, he shoved himself away from the desk, slowly walking to the front door. He ruffled a hand through his already unruly hair as before he opened it.

Francis stood there, a faintly amused smile on his lips with his book in one hand, and…

"What the hell did you bring cake for?" Arthur asked, completely bewildered. He opened the door wide enough for Francis to come through, but didn't formally invite him in.

"Not even a 'hello'?" Francis teased. The Frenchman looked down at it, and shrugged. "We had an extra red velvet cake, and my friend Antonio forced it into my hands before I came here," he explained. "May I come in?"

Arthur scoffed. "Do you need to be actually asked in or something? I'm pretty sure you're not Dracula. The open door is invitation enough."

Francis flashed a quick grin. "I'm polite," he countered. "Unlike you, apparently."

"I'm perfectly polite," he retorted. "Fine, if you're so insistent on doing it this way, come in," Arthur said, taking a step back.

He nodded his thanks as he took a step through the doorway, but didn't advance any further. Instead, his eyes flickered about the front room, oblivious to Arthur as he closed the door and walked down the hall.

"Are you coming, or not?" Arthur called back as soon as he realized that the Frenchman wasn't following behind him. "You look sort of like a moron just standing there."

That seemed to bring Francis back to reality as he hurried to catch up, being careful of the stacks of books that littered the floor.

"Just be careful not to step on anything," he advised. "Some of these are very rare."

"If they're so rare, why do you keep them on the floor of all places?" Francis asked, keeping a bit too close to Arthur as he followed him through the small maze.

A slight grin curved the Brit's lips. "Once you see my collection, you'll understand," he assured his visitor. "Let me take that," he added, easing the box with the cake from Francis' left hand. "Shall I just set it in the dining room for now? Or would you like to taste it before venturing off to the library?"

"I don't want any of it," Francis said. "I'm sure I've had more of this red velvet than should be healthy. But, what sort of baker doesn't taste his own craft? It would be a travesty."

Arthur eyed him skeptically. "So you make pastries," he said. It wasn't a question; the Frenchman had essentially admitted it already.

"I run a little cafe with my cousin, and friend," Francis explained, somehow managing to sound completely dismissive of it. It was almost as if his own profession didn't matter to him.

That wasn't satisfactory. "Somehow, I don't see Matthew working at a cafe," Arthur said, hoping to get more information.

That got Francis to smile. "Not Mathieu," he said. "I've pretty much banned him from working until he graduates. Bella, one of my other cousins."

After the long discussion, they finally reached the dining room. Frankly, Arthur hated living in this house, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Carefully, he slid the box to the center of the table and turned to face Francis.

"Large family then?" he asked, attempting to sound disinterested. Arthur had been caught prying information from people enough times that he had gotten somewhat good at it. Judging by that grin, family seemed to be an ok topic for Francis.

He nodded once, tucking his long hair back. "Most of them are still back in France, but I suppose there's quite a few of us. My mother remarried, as did her brother so Christmas is always a bit of a mess."

Arthur smiled wistfully. He wished that he could have something like that. Back in England, he had his brothers to rely on, but… Not so much anymore. "Well, it sounds lovely all the same," he admitted.

"It was better before we all grew up," Francis replied. "Now, may I see your collection, or do you wish to continue dissecting my life?"

Arthur blushed faintly, pushing past Francis. "Come along, then," he muttered. He hated when he was called on it, but what else was he to do? One can't write convincing families without asking people about theirs.

Francis chuckled, trailing behind. "Why on earth do you live in such a large place?" he wondered. "I'm assuming you have quite the extensive family as well?"

That brought Arthur to a complete stop for a moment. That question brought up so many painful memories that it was difficult to keep going and answer. "This house belonged to my grandfather before he went back to Scotland. I just stay here because it's been paid for," he replied.

"And your family?" he probed, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder.

He kept his gaze firmly away from the Frenchman, worried that he may be able to actually read his expression. "It's just me now." Even to his own ears, Arthur's voice sounded hollow.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Notes:** Just so you know, I only vaguely know where this story is going. Which basically means I'm going to keep hinting at background forever, and never actually get to the point. Even though I really, really want to tell you guys.

Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, and/or favorited The Library.

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya. All books mentioned are property of their respective authors

~X~

The rest of the afternoon had been a complete whirlwind. Francis quickly picked up on the fact that one does not ask Arthur about his family. He had tried to prod a little further, but the instant he did, the Brit had completely closed off.

Francis was pretty sure that those eyes were deadly.

The actual library was a bit terrifying in itself. Thousands of books lined the shelves, filling up an entire room. Now he understood why Arthur kept books on the floor: there was simply no room left for them anywhere else.

"Where did you get all of these?" Francis had asked, completely bewildered.

There were novels of every type. Ones thicker than someone's head, and others that looked barely one hundred pages long. Hardback, paperback, textbooks, and fantasy… Obviously Arthur hadn't been kidding when he said he had everything.

Arthur had shrugged, picking one up from a small table. "Various places," he replied. "My grandfather was fond of reading, and… And my mother, too." His shoulders had tensed at that admission, eyes firmly on the back cover of a heavy paperback. "It's hereditary, I suppose."

That was all the extra information Francis had gotten. There was no explanation as to why there were so many, and how in the hell he had gotten them all. This was the sort of collection that was built up over a lifetime. Not something a man in his early twenties would just have casually laying around.

Francis sighed as he entered his café the next morning. He was only slightly shocked to see Antonio already there, sitting on the counter.

"How was your date?" he asked. Antonio's usual wide grin stretched his lips.

In spite of himself, Francis returned the smile. "I'm pretty sure he doesn't like me much," he replied. Unfortunately, he was well aware that the dislike was actually a victory.

It meant that Arthur didn't completely hate him.

The Spaniard's olive eyes dulled slightly upon hearing that. "I'm sorry Francis…"

He scoffed as he approached his friend. "Considering that he seems to hate everyone else, I think I'm doing rather well, actually." Francis pulled his hair back as he leaned against the counter. "You're not supposed to work today," he added.

Antonio shrugged, eyeing him skeptically. "Lovino's sick today, so I thought I'd take over for him today. So why is it that you always end up dating people who don't like you, or anyone else? I mean, Roderich was pretty, and I guess Ivan's sister was too, but… Is it just a visual thing?"

The small smile instantly switched into a grimace. "I'm not that shallow," Francis retorted. "Roderich played the most beautiful violin pieces, and Natalia and I bonded over our homesickness. Besides… Arthur's just one of those who hates when people don't like his books. Or step on his papers. And god forbid you walk into some of his rooms." He shrugged lightly. "All in all, it's not bad. He's grown on me. He's a very well-spoken man."

The café's co-owner continued to keep a wary eye on the blond. "Just be careful," he warned.

Francis bit back a sigh. It was always like this. Ever since the incident with Ludwig, his friends were constantly telling him to be careful when the next one came along. Rarely was there real encouragement, untainted by a cautious remark.

"You know I always am," he reminded the brunette.

He could almost hear Antonio's unspoken retort. 'If you were careful, maybe I wouldn't have to worry about you every time you hold a knife.'

~X~

In another odd turn of events, Matthew showed up at the coffee shop minutes before Francis' shift ended. He was starting to get the sense that everyone was going to be worrying over him until it was proven that Arthur was completely harmless. Or until Arthur found a way to shatter his heart, which Francis doubted would happen. The Frenchman had no intention of allowing the librarian into his heart.

"I heard Arthur was talking to you again," Matt said casually after sitting down at one of the empty tables. "How's that going?"

"Who told you?" he asked. They hadn't spoken in a few days; Matthew shouldn't know that Arthur apologized.

A mischievous grin quirked his lips. "The walls have ears," he replied ominously. "Actually, Alfred mentioned that you asked for his address, so I just assumed. It's going well then?"

Francis paused, trying to think of a way to describe the entire ordeal as simply as he could. "His house frightens me."

Matthew's brow furrowed. "Why…?"

"Francis, you're actually here!" Bella exclaimed as she waltzed through the glass doors. "I was so sad I didn't see you yesterday."

He smiled slightly, stepping aside so the Belgian could take over his place. "I'm sorry, cheri," he said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek.

She smiled brilliantly, waving him away. "So long as you mean it. It's been a while, Mathieu," Bella added

He nodded his greeting. "But seriously, why does his house scare you?" Matthew repeated, turning his attention back toward Francis.

He sighed, taking off his flour-dusted apron. "Mind if I sit here a while?" he asked Bella.

She shrugged. "You own the place more than I do. You can do what you want."

Francis smiled quickly at her before she turned to begin working. "It's a cold house," he summarized. "It's difficult to imagine anyone living there."

It was the quickest way to say it. Telling Matthew that he lived in an exceedingly large house by himself, with thousands of books and no personal touches would just take too long.

He quirked a brow as his eyes locked squarely onto his cousin. "Maybe that's just the way he is," Matthew offered. "He always seems a bit distant, at least."

Francis tried not to scoff. Obviously he had never talked to Arthur about books. Contrary to the Brit's public face, the Frenchman could see the passion, the complete infatuation every time they were mentioned. "He's really not," Francis contradicted. "He runs that library for a reason."

"Even though his taste in books sucks?" Matthew verified. Those dark blue eyes glanced down to the wooden table, sparkling with amusement.

"Yes," Francis agreed. Hesitation marked his tone, thinly veiled with faux-arrogance.

Matthew chuckled, stirring his ridiculously bitter coffee. "Well, at least you two are talking again," he conceded with a smile. "You two seem to be a good match."

Francis scowled slightly, reaching over to muss the Canadian's hair. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

He knocked Francis' hand away, winking at him. "Just that you can satisfy your need to constantly bicker with someone," he replied innocently. "Better Arthur than someone I actually have to deal with all the time."

Francis snickered. "Good to know that your motives aren't selfish."

"Me, selfish?" A smirk curled the Canadian's lips. "The fact that you would even think such a thing breaks my heart."

He stood up, still grinning at his cousin. "Well, it was nice to see you so soon, Matthew," Francis said.

Matt nodded, taking a sip of his probably cold coffee. "And you. It's good to see you happy again, Francis."

And there it was. That double-edged comment Francis had been waiting for since Matthew showed up. Still, he forced his smile to stay in place until he was safely outside the café. Only then did he allow himself to sigh in disappointment as he slumped against his car. It always went like this.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Notes:** I'm sorry for any confusion brought on by the last chapter. I realize (too late) that I was writing too much me, and not enough Francis. Fortunately, the information, while superfluous, is accurate to the story's background. I'll make sure it gets explained within a few chapters.

Thank you to everyone who read, favorited, started following, and/or reviewed.

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters belong to Himaruya. All books mentioned are property of their respective authors.

~X~

Francis didn't know why, but he found himself driving back to Arthur's home. His hands shook faintly, making his car swerve slightly on the road. An entire day of sidelong, concerned glances and questioned that seemed razor-sharp had him completely frayed.

After five minutes of ringing the obnoxiously loud doorbell, it became clear that the librarian wasn't home. However, instead of going back to his car and driving home, Francis found himself sitting on the front porch, crossing his arms over his knees.

"This is just not my day," he sighed to himself.

It felt like hours passed by, yet the Frenchman couldn't find the willpower to move. He remained on the cold steps, dejected. A short interrogation by Antonio, or a double-edged conversation with Matthew, he could handle. Both in the same day, with the added pressure of the Spaniard checking in on him several times an hour… That was just unbearable.

Finally, he saw Arthur trudging up the driveway, missing his seemingly ever-present backpack. The second the Brit saw Francis, he stopped completely.

"Are you fucking serious?" he demanded, throwing his hands up. "Do you not understand that I don't like company?"

Francis tried to smile at him, but couldn't. "I need a book," he admitted. "I couldn't wait twenty four hours for a delivery."

Arthur looked at him for a moment. It was an expression that Francis was accustomed to seeing today. One of complete pity. "I have a few things you might like," he said. "You can follow me, if you want."

Stiffly, Francis stood up, waiting for the librarian to open his door. "Don't you worry someone will break in?" he asked, noticing that it was apparently left unlocked.

As a response, he shrugged, leading the way through the mess of books. "My things have no value to a thief," he replied. "These books are only important to me."

Francis didn't inquire further. He followed Arthur silently through the miniature maze of a house. It was strange; though the place was still impersonal, and a bit intimidating, he found it to feel more… Safe. Arthur's home felt more like a haven, instead of an over-sized ghost house.

Finally, they reached the actual library room. Francis couldn't help but notice that there were more books than yesterday.

"Sit down," Arthur said. He motioned to a crimson velvet armchair in one of the corners. "I can probably find what you need better than you can. Just give me a moment."

The librarian quickly set to work. Arthur paced in front of the numerous shelves, murmuring to himself. Every now and then he would stop, fingering a particular novel, then shake his head and move on.

"And you think you know what I need?" Francis challenged, sinking into the old chair.

Arthur tossed him a brilliant smile. "A distraction," he replied cheekily. "You want something that completely absorbs you, and makes you forget about whatever your problem is. I know _exactly_ what you need. You need something heavy, both in the hand and the mind. A piece of work that makes your problems seem lighter, without completely dismissing them."

Francis watched him continue about the room, completely floored. He barely had to say anything to this man, and he understood. Maybe a bit too well.

"Here. This should occupy you for quite a while," Arthur said, snapping him from his reverie.

Francis looked up, focusing on the large novel the librarian presented to him. "Hugo, huh?" He managed to force a slight smile. "I never would have thought you would read French literature."

Arthur shrugged. "It's translated. Besides, 'Les Misérables' is pretty much a staple. But, if you want to read it, you have to do it here. She doesn't leave the library. Also, if you want to make notes in it, don't. This one has to stay perfectly pristine."

He shot the Brit a quizzical look, but didn't speak. Something about this precise moment pleaded for the Frenchman's silence.

In return, Arthur offered a sympathetic smile before returning to his shelves. "Stay as long as you'd like," he said. "I know what it's like to need an escape."

He stroked the cover of the novel. It looked to be over a thousand pages long; it was obviously heavily read and appeared to be decades old. "You ran away, correct?" he asked. Francis vaguely remembered a comment like that during one of their many arguments.

"You could say that," Arthur muttered. Slowly, he pulled down another, lighter novel.

The Frenchman wanted to ask, but held his tongue. As the librarian slid into a matching chair that was opposite Francis', he opened the cover, noticing the inscription. "Rose Kirkland," he said, reading the delicate, yet sharp penmanship.

Instantly, the tension in the room became crushing. Francis glanced up to see Arthur's hands clenched tightly around his paperback. All the blood had drained from his face.

"Your mother's?" he tried to verify, keeping a disinterested mask. "Is that why you don't lend this out? Because it's hers?"

His questions were met with a painful silence. Those thick brows were drawn over wide eyes, and a sickeningly pale face.

"Arthur?" he prompted after a few moments.

"That was her favorite," Arthur whispered in response. After a couple seconds of blankly staring at the floor, he squeezed his bottle green eyes shut, shaking his head.

Francis picked up the key word. Was. Was her favorite. And Arthur claimed to have no family left… "I'm sorry," Francis murmured the second he snapped the pieces together. He reached out to gently touch the back of Arthur's hand.

A tight, pained smile pulled at his lips. "It was a long time ago." He did, however manage to relax enough to pull away from Francis, and opened up the book.

It was then that the Frenchman noticed that it was also by Hugo, and looked just as old as the book he was holding. 'Notre Dame de Paris'

~X~

Several hours, and barely five hundred pages in, Francis finally managed to look up. He had no idea what time it was, but he got the sense that he should have left quite a while ago.

He realized then that Arthur was still there. The book he had been reading was set on the floor, as the Brit curled up in the armchair, completely asleep. That normally tense expression fell away, revealing a childish face beneath the flashing eyes and constant grimace.

The most surprising thing was that he was completely silent as he slept. There was no mumbling, no snoring, no shifting, nothing. Just soft breathing. If not for the occasional fluttering of his eyelids, and the steady rise and fall of his chest, Francis might worry he was dead.

Francis smiled despite himself before looking for something to use as a bookmark. Towards the back of his volume, he found something suitable. It was an old photograph of a blonde woman, who shared Arthur's glimmering gaze. Though it was an old, faded Polaroid, there was still something brilliant about this woman.

It didn't take a genius to realize that this must be Arthur's mother. Carefully, he marked his place with the picture, and gently set 'Les Misérables' next to the sleeping librarian. Likely, he wouldn't be too happy to wake up and realize that Francis was still there.

Still, he tried to lock the doors before he left. Arthur may not think others thought his books were valuable, but Francis wasn't so sure. After all, were he a thief, Francis would take all of them in a heartbeat.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Notes:** Oh dear, my updating has slipped again… I'm really sorry about that. I'm trying, but I guess sometimes that isn't enough, huh?

Thank you to everyone who read, started following, favorited, and/or reviewed!

Also, _italics_=dream sequences/flashbacks

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya. All books mentioned are property of their respective authors.

~X~

_It was completely grey outside. The only thing that separated Arthur from the rain was the car window. Vaguely, he recognized that this wasn't real. Everything outside the little car—which he instinctively knew was blue—was too monochromatic. It was all one shade, with the sky and pavement blending into one bland color.  
_

_Arthur's forehead was pressed against the cool glass, a welcome relief to the overheated vehicle.  
_

_Faintly, he could hear Alfred's loud, semi-irritating voice as he jabbered on. "No, but I really don't get it," Alfred insisted. "Why is it that girls always freak out when Artie talks? I mean, I know the whole British accent thing, but seriously."  
_

_He heard a soft laugh that instantly made the Brit freeze. That sound was too familiar, yet so distant… It was one that Arthur recognized in an instant. Slowly, he managed to look over to the driver.  
_

_His mother looked back to the two boys in her back seat, winking. "It's not the accent, Alfred. It's that British charm," she explained. A wide smile curved her lips as she spoke.  
_

_Seeing that smile made Arthur's heart ache. It had been years since he had seen his mother grin like that.  
_

_Unfortunately, he wasn't allowed to reminisce for very long. Not even seconds later, everything went white as a horn blared.  
_

~X~

Arthur jolted awake, hearing the loud thud of a book hitting the ground. His heart was pounding against his chest as he nearly hyperventilated. For several seconds, his mind raced about, trying to suppress the all-too vivid dream.

Once he ascertained that he had simply fallen asleep in the armchair for the umpteenth time, Arthur calmed down considerably. It was only a dream. Just a dream and nothing more.

Once he managed to escape the remembrance, two different questions arose. Why had he slept in the library, and where the hell was Francis? The damn baker had been there earlier, reading one of his books, but… He wasn't anywhere in the room.

If Arthur found he had been wandering the house, there would be hell to pay. It was bad enough that Francis deigned to show up on his front step at random, but if he thought he could invade the Englishman's privacy even further…

No. That could never happen; he wouldn't allow it.

With a soft yawn, he stood, feeling his joints cracking in protest from sleeping in the chair. He would promise that he would never sleep there again, but at this point he knew better. All Arthur could do was hope that he didn't do it again soon.

Before going off in search of the Frenchman that may or may not be wandering his house, Arthur looked down to see what he had knocked down. If it was one he had inherited, and he wounded it… The librarian would never forgive himself.

The back cover of 'Les Misérables' innocently looked up at the ceiling. Arthur's heart dropped before jumping into his throat.

"Oh god no," he breathed, kneeling down. Silently, he prayed that she was unharmed. That book was more important than all the rest combined, and if there was so much as a scratch on the dust jacket… No. The Englishman wouldn't even consider that a possibility. She had to be ok. She _had_ to.

He reached out to carefully stroke the hardcover. Arthur could see the faint trembling of his hands as his skin made contact with the heavy paper.

When he felt not even a ding on the back, Arthur sighed in relief. Gently, he scooped up the heavy tome, and cradled it against his chest. 'Thank god she's a hardback,' he thought. 'Thank god…'

Minutes trailed by him as the librarian remained on the hardwood floor, holding his mother's book. Francis was entirely forgotten at this point. It was just Arthur, his thoughts, and the ticking of a distant clock.

Well, it was until he heard footsteps. They were faint, as if the person wasn't even wearing shoes. And who the hell doesn't wear shoes this time of year? It was nearly winter, for Christ's sakes!

"Dude, you really need to lock your doors," he heard a loud, obnoxiously _American_ voice carry into the room.

Automatically, the Brit scowled. Of course it was Alfred. Who else would it be? He was really the only person who would just waltz in. "What I do with my home has no bearing on you," Arthur retorted loudly.

A blond with glasses settled upon his nose leaned against the library's doorway. Just like Arthur thought, his feet were bare. A slight smile played on his lips as he looked at the older man on the floor. "I heard my cousin was looking for you," he said, ignoring Arthur's glare. "Did he stop by?"

Arthur's brow furrowed. "The only person who stopped by was the relative of another one of my customers," the librarian replied. "And you, I suppose. On that note, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Was it Francis?" the American continued. Apparently Alfred was going to keep ignoring Arthur's countering questions.

That brought him a moment of pause. "How did you know?"

His grin brightened. "I told you, he's my cousin," Al explained. He stepped into the cluttered room, easily avoiding the mess of books on the floor. "So he actually came by?"

Arthur stared at his newest visitor, completely horrified. "Are you trying to tell me that all three of you are related?" Dear god; that would be a disaster. It was hard enough to accept that Matthew and Francis were related. Now Alfred was their family as well? Did the ridiculous family ever end?

"All three of us?" Al asked.

"Matthew Williams," he prompted. "He's the one who apparently referred Francis to me. So you're related to him as well?"

Alfred rubbed the back of his neck, leaning up against one of the side tables. "Well, not technically," he admitted. "My mom married his dad when we were teenagers. You know, after the wreck. If you want to actually look at it that way, Francis and I are just step cousins. We're not terribly close, but I love his coffee shop so I stop by every now and then."

This entire morning was just turning out to be sort of a mess. He woke up in the chair, knocked over the most valuable thing he owned, and now his oldest friend walked into the house without warning. And said friend hadn't come by in years.

~X~

_"I heard that Pages closed down," Alfred murmured.  
_

_Rain fell in tear drops on the Englishman. "I saved the books," Arthur answered. He didn't look over at the teenager, unable to see past the marble headstone. "I can't bear to sell them…"  
_

_A warm hand slid across his damp shoulders. "So what are you going to do with them?"  
_

~X~

"Dude, you ok?" Alfred asked after an extended silence.

Arthur snapped back into the present. He then realized that he was still seated cross-legged on the floor, clutching a book to his chest. "I was just thinking," he replied, aiming for an off-handed tone. "You're the one who told that frog where I live, then? There's such a thing as privacy, you know."

Alfred's smile softened, almost completely fading away. "You can't exist holed up in here by yourself. Mattie mentioned that the two of you sort of got along. Well, as well as you get along with anyone. Anyways, I thought I'd help the guy out."

"Just because I prefer my books…" he muttered. "Not all of us thrive with people constantly wandering in and out of our homes."

"But no one thrives when they sit at home with their nose in a book twenty-four seven," Al retorted. "Honestly. If you didn't deliver the books, I'm pretty sure you would never leave this place."

"I do have a job you know," Arthur replied. "It's not like I sit in here all day. Besides, did you see those roses? Who to you think goes out and takes care of them? Because last time I checked, I can't afford a gardener."

"Flowers aren't company, Art. You need people, not just books." Those usually carefree, sky blue eyes had darkened considerably, hinting at worry that Alfred rarely expressed. "Just because of what happened doesn't mean that you can just wallow in this place forever. I care, Arthur. That's the only reason I come by and pester you."

"I'd prefer if you didn't. Or at least knock before walking in."

Alfred scoffed. "I did. Like, five times. You just never answered, so I figured you weren't' home. Besides, I didn't see Ali out there so I figured you were making deliveries. Thought I'd just wait for you in here..."

That was another pang in the Englishman s heart. "I don't have Alice anymore," he responded softly. He held the book a little tighter, feeling the edges digging into his palms. "I traded her for a set of books a while back."

That was met by a soft silence. Neither of them deigned to fill it.

"You remember Pages?" Arthur eventually asked. His voice was quiet, barely scratching against the quiet.

Alfred adjusted his glasses, his smile completely disappearing. "I was just thinking about that actually," he admitted.

The Brit sighed, laying down on the floor. "I miss it…"

Al took a step closer, placing a reassuring hand on Arthur's wrist. "I know, Artie," he said. "I think most of us do."

Arthur smiled painfully. He could think of a few people who didn't miss the little bookstore.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Notes:** Thank you for being so patient with me and my slow, erratic updating. Also, a thank you to everyone who read, favorited, started following, and/or reviewed.

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya. All books mentioned are property of their respective authors.

~X~

It wasn't even noon when Francis rang the doorbell of Arthur's sizable home. There was another five hundred pages in 'Les Misérables' to read. The Frenchman fully intended on getting that done before dusk.

However, when Alfred answered the door, Francis could tell that his plans weren't going to go the way he hoped. He had nearly forgotten that the two of them had been friends. Arthur was constantly saying that he hated company, yet here was Alfred standing barefoot in the doorway.

That perpetual, idiot's grin had completely vanished from his face. Obviously, something serious had happened. Something that shook even the American's permanently sunny outlook.

"Hey bro," Al greeted, oblivious to his step-cousin's scrutiny. "Artie's in the library."

"I'd prefer if he invited me in," Francis replied. It was only after the words were spoken he realized the ice sharpening them.

"Ah…" Alfred looked back into the house for a moment. "I don't think he's moving today. Want me to go back and ask him? I'm really pretty sure that he's not going to care."

Now he was almost positive that he wasn't going to be getting the reading done today. Likely, he would end up doing for Arthur what he had done for Francis yesterday instead. The Frenchman shook his head. "It's fine, I suppose. Are you here visiting?"

Al ruffled a hand through his hair, nervously glancing back again. That seemed to be a common theme with this house, Francis decided. Everyone was always checking back into it.

"I think I've stayed too long," he admitted. "I was just about to leave when you showed up. You didn't box me in, right?"

Francis' brow furrowed. He didn't remember seeing Al's oversized pickup outside the house. "I didn't even see you out there."

He shrugged, picking his shoes off the floor. "I'll take that as a good sign. Oh, and be careful with Artie today, ok? I think he's upset." Without waiting for a response, Al shrugged past his step-cousin, still without his shoes on.

He watched the younger blond as he practically sprinted across the lawn to the side of the house. Only when Alfred was out of sight did he shut the door, taking care to actually lock it this time.

Once again, he picked his way through the mansion-like estate. By now, he had pretty much memorized how to get to the books. Instead of focusing on the path, Francis paid a bit more attention to the books.

Not even a speck of dust was visible on any of the covers. The stacks, while a bit uneven, were all perfectly straight, and lined up according to the size of the novel. The titles faced the hallways, each of them visible were one to crouch down to read them. He wondered if there was any sort of legitimate organization to them, or if it was merely an order of convenience.

When Francis entered the library, he found Arthur laying on the floor, a heavy book held against his chest. He was on his back with his ankles neatly crossed. Wide, dazed eyes were turned to the heavens. The Brit didn't even acknowledge his entrance.

It was then that he noticed that Arthur was wearing the exact same thing he had worn yesterday. Though, his dark slacks were wrinkled, and the white button down looked a general wreck today. All appearances indicated that the librarian hadn't left this room since last night.

Francis cleared his throat, hoping to gain the other's attention.

"If you've come to read, by all means," Arthur murmured. "If you've come to argue, today isn't really a good day." Still, he never looked away from the ceiling.

"Trust me, I'm not in the mood for a fight," the Frenchman replied. "Much as I hate to admit you were right about 'Les Misérables'. I'd like to finish it today."

Finally, Arthur glanced over to him. Somber, olive eyes were bright against the dark circles that ringed them. His grip on the novel tightened as golden bangs slowly fell over his heavy brows. "I don't know if I can lend her to you today," he admitted.

Francis frowned slightly, not understanding why until he realized that was the book Arthur was hugging against himself. "Perhaps a different distraction then," he allowed.

Arthur sighed softly, turning onto his side. "Why would you even want such a depressing read anyways? Life is horrible enough as is. People are suffering; they get hurt, they die, and they're just miserable." For a brief moment, the librarian pressed his lips together. "Why would you want to read something that's just more heartache?"

Francis simply held the other's gaze. Arthur was trying to ask more. He could _feel_ it. But what?

The image Francis saw before him was that of a young man in mourning. This was someone who was crying inside; hiding behind the shell of a perfect, solitary life.

"Sometimes I need to be reminded that it could be worse," he finally replied.

A slight smile tugged at the Englishman's lips. "You seem to remind yourself of that rather often," he noted, eyes slipping shut. "In the short time I've known you, you have devoured every tragedy I've thrown at you. Huxley, Sinclair, and now Hugo… Doesn't it make you sad?"

That put Francis at a loss for words. Did it make him sad? Not really, he decided. It made him think, but it didn't actually upset him.

Should it, though?

"I read them all on your recommendation," he reminded. "Do they hurt you?"

Arthur pulled his knees to his chest, pressing the book further against himself. "Some more than others. This one especially…" Again, those sharp green eyes pierced through the café-owner. "I don't want you to read this today. On the far left shelf on the bottom row, I have a better distraction for you."

For several seconds, Francis held that gaze. He was searching for whatever it was that Arthur was really trying to say. Was he worried about the Frenchman, or was he simply trying to hold on to his mother's book for a little while longer? Still, he made his way over to the allotted shelf, kneeling before it.

"It's a bit childish, I know, but I think you need a little 'Harry Potter' in your life," Arthur said. His voice had fallen back down to a near-whisper. "A little magic could be just what you need right now."

Almost unbidden, a gentle smile curved his lips. Lined up especially neatly were two different copies of each book: one in paperback, and the other hardback. These books were especially well-worn, yet remarkably well taken care of. The binding looked soft, yet sturdy, while the paper was creased into near whiteness on each of the paperbacks.

"I take it these are your favorites," he said.

Arthur hummed softly. "Asking me what my favorite books are is like asking a woman which is her favorite child," he replied. "Though I will admit that I have a… fondness for them."

Francis shook his head, that rueful grin still in place. "I believe I told you that I don't believe in magic. Honestly, all I want is another bit of tragedy to keep me going from yesterday. You were reading 'Hunchback of Notre Dame' last night, weren't you? Perhaps I can read that instead."

"Not today Francis," Arthur repeated. "If you're dead-set on reading something like that, it won't be here. I'm sure the actual library has what you want."

But the actual library wouldn't have Arthur, Francis realized. That's why he was here today. "Is there a reason you're so upset today?" he asked, completely changing the subject. "I met Alfred on my way in; he said you were likely to just lay on the floor all day."

The silence between them was sharp. The way that the house made no noise when Arthur didn't was almost like a knife to the heart. Francis looked over to the librarian, who had curled up on his side facing away from his guest.

"You wouldn't understand," he mumbled. "Let's just leave it at Al has no sense of tact whatsoever."

Francis remained motionless, kneeling in front of the shelves. On one hand, he wanted to ask. He wanted to know what had made the Englishman pretty much immobile with a book against his chest. Why Alfred looked strained as he bolted out the door, and why Arthur wasn't keeping up with the long string of angst.

Yet, it wasn't his place to ask. So instead, he stood up, and walked over to where the other blond lay. "Maybe reading can wait for another day," Francis commented as he sat down beside him, legs neatly tucked beneath him.

"Are you going to go home then?" Francis noticed the barest note of sadness in the words. Arthur kept his eyes unfocused, not looking up towards him.

Without thinking about it, Francis brushed the Brit's hair back from his forehead. "I thought we could just enjoy each other's company," he admitted. "We don't have to talk, or anything. You can sit and wallow about Alfred, and I will do the same about a few others."

Arthur's lids slipped shut as a he almost smiled. "I can live with that."


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Notes:** So this is just a little domestic chapter to bring this story a little closer to where it will end. Sorry for the length.

Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, and/or favorited. You are the reason I've managed to keep this going.

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya. All books mentioned are property of their respective authors.

~X~

Francis had become a regular fixture in Arthur's home. No longer did he call for books; often the Englishman would return home from work to find him browsing the stacks that lined the halls.

Arthur didn't know exactly when it had come to this point. It seemed that one day he was slamming the door in the Frenchman's face, and giving him a key the next.

Francis had teased him; saying that a key was only useful if the doors were ever locked. Arthur told him to shut it.

"Do you ever stop reading?" he asked upon discovering Francis leaning over the kitchen counter with his nose in yet another book.

Crystal-blue eyes briefly flickered away from the page. "I wonder sometimes," he replied with a smile. Long fingers plucked a pencil from behind his ear, underlining a section of text. "Were you at work again? I thought you were with your computer."

"Not all of us own our own businesses, you know." Arthur grimaced as he passed the other man to peek into his almost-definitely bare cupboards. "And for the record, my laptop has a name. I can assure you that Rory doesn't like being called an 'it'."

As soon as he pulled open the cupboard door, he froze. They were completely stocked. Bags of flour, boxes of dried fruit, canisters of various powders, nuts, and god knows what else lined the shelves.

"Well, not all of us can afford the luxury of working merely part time," Francis retorted absently. "The grass is always greener, as they say."

"Did you buy all this?" Arthur asked, ignoring the Frenchman's comment.

"I got tired of always leaving because you have nothing to eat," he explained.

Arthur looked at him. He was still focused on the book, lazily turning the page. "So you bought groceries?"

Finally, Francis glanced over at him. "Is that a problem?"

"It's weird."

A slight smile curved Francis' lips as he shrugged. "It was inconvenient to be forced to put down a beautiful piece of work to return home simply because you don't keep anything edible in the house."

Arthur grimaced. "It's still weird," he insisted, turning back to the cupboards.

"Whatever you say, _cher_."

Arthur rolled his eyes as he snagged one of his granola bars. He hadn't bought this new food, so he wouldn't touch it. Much as he wanted to take the dried apple slices.

It had been a few weeks since the 'incident' with 'Les Misérables'. Francis still hadn't picked the book up again, much to Arthur's chagrin.

Actually, it had been quite a while since he had seen the Frenchman read anything even remotely tragic. Even now, he had 'Speak' in his hands, which was a frightening change from 'Brave New World'.

"Is there a reason your reading taste has shifted?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject. "I haven't seen you pick up a piece of angst since November."

Francis laughed quietly. "As soon as I finish this, I'm going back to 'Les Misérables'," he promised. "I just haven't been in the proper mood to appreciate it as of late. Don't worry your pretty head over it."

A faint flush stained his cheeks as his scowl increased. "You don't have to patronize me," he muttered. "I'm going back to Rory. Enjoy your book."

"I'm making cobbler in a few hours if you want any," Francis said. "Good luck on whatever it is you're always working on."

At that, Arthur had to hide a smile. Even though his back was turned to the other man, it was still habit. "Maybe I'll let you see it sometime."

And maybe he would. Arthur had never shown his writing to another soul, but he could see himself showing Annette to Francis.

~X~

True to his word, the next time Arthur caught Francis in the library, the heavy tome by Hugo was in his hands. The Brit almost grinned at the sight; it wasn't even eight in the morning, and Francis had already come in, and gotten right to the book.

Careful to not disturb the other, Arthur entered the room to pick up the novels he had to deliver today. Later, he promised himself to ask Francis about the book.

~X~

Several hours and one awkward conversation with Matthew later, Arthur walked past his reading room. Francis still had the book in his lap, but had pushed up the sleeves of his sweater.

"You're here early," he commented, drawing the other's attention.

Francis flashed him a brilliant smile. "I work this afternoon," he explained. "And how are you this lovely morning? I'm surprised to see you already awake."

Arthur tugged the shoulder strap of his bag. "I'm just about to leave for work, but I had a few things to deliver first. It's getting close to finals, so I'll be busy for the next several weeks. Speaking of, Matthew says you should stop by soon."

His brow furrowed. Francis picked up something from the side table to mark his page. "How exactly are those two things related?"

The librarian dropped his bag in the corner of the room. "I had to deliver a book to him this morning. It was something he needed to write his final on. Said something about comparing 'The Odyssey' with 'The Road'." He rolled his eyes; Arthur didn't particularly care for McCarthy's work.

Francis nodded slowly, returning his attention to the book before him. "Thank you for telling me. Have a good day, if I don't see you for the rest of it."

That brought him a bit of pause as he walked past the other blond. When exactly had they gotten so…. _domestic_? They way they spoke to each other, it was more like a couple instead of two people who happened to share a love of reading.

Arthur scrutinized him for a few moments as he pondered this. Then, as he reached up to brush a few strands of wavy hair behind his ear, Arthur caught sight of something he couldn't un-see.

Adorning Francis' wrist were a handful of neat, precisely straight scars running across his skin. They were barely visible, but there was no mistaking them.

"Yeah… You too," he replied as he left the room.

No matter how they spoke to each other, the Brit was pretty sure that they weren't quite close enough for him to ask. Besides, was it really his place?


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Notes:** All right lovelies. I'm sorry, but we have a bit more of this past-angst to get through before we can get back to the teeth-rotting fluff. I'll try to make this as painless as possible. Feel free to tell me when I'm going a bit too heavy with it; sometimes I don't realize that I'm doing that.

Thank you to everyone who followed, favorited, read, and/or reviewed. You mean a lot to me.

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya. All books mentioned are property of their respective authors.

~X~

Francis grew to love the times when he would see Arthur after he returned from work. The Englishman would always come back with the heavy scent of ink as his cologne, almost like he was a book himself. Occasionally, black smudges marred the fair skin of his cheeks, and stain his fingertips, making him look more like a child who had been playing with paints.

Of course, the flip side was that Arthur would usually settle immediately before his computer, staring blankly at the screen unless Francis could secure his attention in time. Hence, he tended to hang around the front of the librarian's house while he read.

As of late, though, Arthur had been checking in on him rather frequently no matter where he was. Soft inquiries about how he was started coming in more often. Even if he was working on his laptop, he would stop every now and then to see if Francis was ok.

Still, Francis found himself over at Arthur's library of a home more often than his own place. Even if he was under the somber, emerald gaze, it felt more comfortable than his own lonely house.

On this particular day, Francis was leaned over Arthur's chair, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from the other's back. He had braced himself on the arms of the librarian's chair. Arthur was, at the moment, slumped over on his desk, head buried in his arms as he muttered nonsense. Arthur hadn't checked in on him for several hours, so Francis took it upon himself to make sure the librarian was all right.

"Writer's block?" Francis asked, peering at the empty document open on the Brit's laptop.

"Every single day," Arthur answered, his voice muffled. "I can't get the characters to cooperate for the life of me. She's not leaving Belgium, but she can't stay there forever."

He hummed thoughtfully. The Frenchman only had a vague idea about what Arthur was complaining about, but still. "Do you know what helps?" Francis asked, remembering an old trick he used to use when he would actually write. "Take a step back from… Rory for a moment."

Arthur sat upright, turning to look over at him. That bottle green gaze flickered to the arm next to him before sliding back up to his face. "How is that supposed to help? I can't write without my laptop."

Francis rolled his eyes. People were so dependant on technology these days. "Really? Because I believe I've come across your handwriting before in your novels. It may be awful, but it's still writing without a computer."

"That isn't even remotely what I meant," he retorted. "They dislike me when I type, but they hate me if I attempt to do anything longhand."

He sighed. "Will you just give it a shot?" Francis asked impatiently.

Arthur pressed his lips together, his gaze once again slipping down to Francis' hand. "Francis?" he returned, hesitation hitching his light voice. "Can I… I need to ask you something."

Francis' brows drew together. Arthur had been acting more than a bit odd as of late. Was this finally the point where the Brit was going to admit to whatever it was that was on his mind? He hoped so; their awkward conversations were getting a bit nerve rattling. "Go ahead."

Arthur turned in his seat, not quite facing Francis, but not facing his computer screen either. His right hand, tainted with black ink, rose to stroke the edge of Francis' shirtsleeve.

Which was when the Frenchman realized that he had shoved his sleeves up to his elbows, leaving his wrists exposed.

His blood ran cold; panic taking control of him as the pieces clicked together with lightning-quick precision. "They're nothing," he replied, pulling away from the other.

Arthur's thin lips quirked into a small frown. "That's what I hear," he murmured. "I used to know some people with marks like those. Always said they were 'nothing'." He sighed, dropping his hand from Francis' shirt. "Forget I said anything. You know better than I do what they are." The Brit turned back to his laptop, tapping a few keys.

Francis' lips pressed into a hard line as he took a step away. How was he supposed to react to something like that? "I should leave," he murmured, his gaze still locked on Arthur's back.

The other blonde's shoulders visibly tensed. "Will you come back tomorrow?" the librarian asked quietly.

"I have work," Francis replied stiffly. Of course, that had never stopped him from stopping by before… But right now, he was a bit too stunned. Shell-shocked, even. It felt as if a dark pit had appeared in his stomach, chilling him to the bone even though Arthur's home was nearly tropical in temperature.

A shaky sigh passed the Brit's lips. "Maybe another day," he offered. "You know you're always welcome here. I hope my words didn't upset you."

He nodded, forgetting that Arthur couldn't see him. "Perhaps. I'll have to see how my schedule looks. I'm going to be a bit busy for a while. Matthew is moving, so I will be helping with that for several weeks."

That was a bald-faced lie. Matt wasn't set to move for over a month now; not until he finished his finals. But, he doubted Arthur knew that. And even if he did, it was unlikely the Brit would confront him over that.

"If you need a distraction, you know how to reach me," Arthur nearly whispered. "I might have something around here that you'd enjoy."

Francis didn't reply to that; how would he? Half of him wanted to throw that back in his face, and the other half just wanted to apologize.

In the end, he did neither. Without a word, the Frenchman walked out the door of Arthur's study, through the maze of a house, and finally out to his own car. By the time his key was in the ignition, Francis' hands were trembling badly enough that it was a struggle to even start the car.

He had to take a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the cold of winter settle upon his skin before he could actually get the engine to start.

Of course this would happen in December, he berated himself. The single most hellish month out of the entire year… Nothing good ever happened in December.

The road before him seemed to blur; the speed he pushed his car uncomfortably fast, but Francis couldn't stop himself. He drove at near-freeway speeds through the city. His car wavered, not quite staying in the same place of the lane. Yet, he refused to stop until he was in front of his own house.

How could he have been so stupid? Francis berated himself. He paced about the front room, running his hands through his hair, worrying his lower lip, whirling about in a frenzy.

That had been a stupid move, the move of a complete moron. He knew Arthur was a perceptive one from the start; thoughtlessly showing off his arms was something only a true idiot would do.

After several minutes, he stopped in the doorway to the kitchen. His breathing was ragged, and he could feel the blood pounding through his veins, pulsing against his head.

In a moment of blind rage, Francis' fist collided with the door frame. The sound cracked through the empty house as harsh breaths were pushed through gritted teeth. He could feel the pain radiating up his arm.

Arthur knew. He knew about the scars. Francis hissed a string of curses, both French and English. Some were directed at the librarian, others at his throbbing hand, but most off them were reserved for himself.

How could he have been so completely careless? For nearly five years, he had painstakingly hidden away the remnants of his depression. Now, one minor slip and all his efforts were for nothing.

Tears stung his eyes. It was foolish of him. That's what he was; a fool.

A soft knock on the door snapped his thoughts like a thread of sugar. Francis turned to stare at his front entrance, anxiety hunching his shoulders. Still, despite everything, he couldn't stop himself from walking to the door to open it.

Before him stood Matthew; his face half-hidden behind a dark, mahogany scarf. His brows were drawn as he appraised his cousin. "Arthur called," he explained, glancing down at the ground before him. "May I come in?"

A broken laugh fell from Francis' lips as he bowed his head. "He knows," he murmured. "Mathieu, Arthur knows about…." His fists clenched by his sides, wanting nothing more than to collapse right there. "He knows about what I did," he finished in a whisper.

Matthew sighed, reaching out to grab his shoulders. "You aren't making any sense," he said softly. "You could be talking about twenty different things. Take a breath, and tell me what he knows."

Francis placed his hands over the Canadian's, pushing them off. He didn't want to explain. He didn't want the pity he was sure to get. He just wanted the whole mess to disappear. "I just need some time alone," he replied. Even his voice had begun to tremble, to Francis' dismay.

He scrutinized his cousin. Francis could almost sense his frown from beneath the scarf. "You're going to relax. You're going to call Bella, tell her that you can't work tomorrow, and you're going to sleep." He pulled Francis into a quick hug that lasted about half a second. "And you're going to call me when you wake up in the morning. Understand?"

Francis shook his head, scoffing. Matt was worrying. That was Francis' job, and both of them knew that. "If that's what you want," he said. "I'm sorry that he called you; I know you have enough on your mind without me."

It was an automatic reaction. The words poured from his mouth without consideration. Honestly, Francis didn't need to think before telling someone not to worry.

Matthew nodded slowly, taking a step back. "I'll be here if you need me," he murmured, fishing his keys from his pocket. "Just…. Make sure you let me know if you do need me. I'm not a mind reader."

He nodded, knowing that wouldn't happen. He would only call if he was standing in front of a cliff, with a gun to his head. And even then, it was a bit iffy if he would actually call.

Because what Matthew didn't know surely couldn't hurt him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Notes:** All right. I'm going to apologize again for the long wait. I'll keep working on this as quickly as I can, without sacrificing its quality.

Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, and/or followed The Library. And an extra thanks for putting up with me and my erratic updates.

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya. All books mentioned are property of their respective authors.

~X~

It was scant hours after Arthur called Matthew that he received an order from the Canadian. 'Anna Karenina', of all things.

The timing was such that he was almost positive that the delivery was nothing more than a ruse, but he didn't say anything except that he would be there in the morning with Leo Tolstoy's work.

Arthur bit down on the edge of his thumb, still worrying. He knew that he had been pushing the boundaries between himself and Francis as of late, but the Frenchman had seemed more than all right with it.

Some vain part of him had hoped that they were close enough that Francis would actually trust him. After all, Arthur had trusted him with more information about his mother than almost everyone else he knew. Alfred being the only one who knew more.

Yes, he had only mentioned a few small details, like that 'Les Misérables' was her favorite book and that she taught him to read, but hell. Arthur had yet to tell anyone else even that much.

Of course, he had known he was crossing a line when he even_ thought _about mentioning the scars. It had bee so painfully obvious. He should have known much better than to even consider asking about them.

But he didn't think the mere allusion to them would provoke such a cold response, even after gratuitous back-pedaling on Arthur's part.

He was therefore expecting the worst when he knocked on the door of Matthew's apartment. He couldn't say he knew much about the Canadian student, but all the same Arthur knew that expecting the worst possible outcome was always the best way to go. That way you were never disappointed.

Matthew's expression was somber when he answered the door. "You came here earlier than I expected," he said, opening the door wider, silently inviting the Englishman inside. "Do you have time to talk? I think we have to have a serious discussion about your phone call yesterday."

Arthur sighed, his head bowing. "I'm assuming that you didn't really call to borrow Tolstoy's book," he stated, talking a step inside the apartment. He immediately noticed that there were a few packed up boxes lying about, lending Francis credibility when he said that he was going to be helping Matthew move.

The other man shrugged. "I have no interest in reading it. My roommate-to-be might, though. I'll hold on to it for her." He sighed. "Look, did you say something to Francis? He was pretty upset yesterday."

He pressed his lips together. That was the complicated part. They hadn't really said much. Their conversation was a little more implication instead of actual... well conversation. "We didn't talk much," he replied.

The younger blond nodded slowly. "I've got coffee brewing in the kitchen. Do you want any? I get the feeling that we're going to need it. Providing that you don't have any plans, of course."

That almost made Arthur grimace, but he pushed it back. He detested coffee. It was far to bitter for his tastes. "I can only stay for a few hours," he replied. "To be perfectly blunt, I'd rather get this over as quickly as we can."

Matthew shrugged again, gesturing to one of the many chairs about the room. "Take a seat. I need caffeine if we're going to have this conversation." He didn't wait to see if Arthur actually did, opting to disappear into the kitchen.

The Englishman looked around the place, really not wanting to be there. Yes, he wanted to help Francis, but… A lecture from his cousin likely wouldn't help even a little bit.

When Matthew returned with a steaming mug of coffee, he raised a brow when he noticed that Arthur was still standing near the entrance. Still, he didn't comment. Instead, he settled himself on the couch, taking a sip before speaking. "I don't know what you said to my cousin, but he's scared."

Arthur sighed, pressing his fingertips to his temple. He was not even remotely prepared for this. "I didn't say much of anything to him," he repeated. "We didn't exchange a lot of words that day."

"I went to see him after you called," Matthew said. "Whatever happened between you two…? Last time I saw Francis so upset it was when Antonio found out about—" He broke off abruptly, visibly paling as the coffee nearly slipped out of his hand. Arthur could hear the shattering of realization when it him.

"Shit, that's what he meant," he whispered. His dark blue gaze shifted, boring directly into Arthur.

He shifted uncomfortably under those eyes, tugging at the bag slung over his shoulder. If looks could kill, Arthur figured that Matthew's was capable of crushing another beneath its weight.

"You saw his scars," Matthew stated. "No wonder he was freaked out… Jesus, I think I need something stronger than this." He stood abruptly, his movements stiff as he returned to his kitchen for a short moment.

"I wasn't thinking," Arthur said, hoping that he could speak before everything began to spiral past his worst expectations. "I was scared for him, and I didn't think before I… Well, I didn't mention them out loud, but it was pretty clear what I meant."

Matthew stopped in the doorway, not turning around, but listening silently.

Suppressing a sigh, Arthur continued. "We didn't have an argument or anything. There may have been one sarcastic remark, but that's it. Then he left, and I called you. That's all that happened."

Matthew looked back at his guest, a frown etched on his lips. "I'm not going to sugarcoat this, because that isn't going to get us anywhere. You screwed up pretty badly," he stated. "You have to fix it. Today."

Arthur grimaced. He didn't solve problems; his talent lay solely in creating them. "And how, pray tell, am I supposed to do that? You're his family. Shouldn't you be the one to… to help him?"

"I don't care how; just do it," Matthew nearly snapped. "You call yourself his friend? Then freaking _act_ like one."

Matthew's tone made Arthur recoil. He had never heard so much anger, or pure emotion in the other's voice in the two years they had been acquaintances. "We aren't friends," he defended softly. "Francis and I are just…" He paused, not sure how to finish that sentence.

Hell, he didn't have a clue what they were. They weren't friends, he was sure of that. But, they weren't merely acquaintances. Arthur didn't go about giving keys to just anyone.

Francis was like a permanent fixture in his life. Someone who was always there, and who probably would be there for the rest of his life. Or, at least that's the way it seemed right now.

Matthew sighed after several moments of silence. "I don't care what you are. I just need you to be what's best for him right now." A small frown shaped his mouth as he took another sip of his coffee. "Can you do that?"

His eyes widened at the thought. Of course he couldn't do that; Arthur could only be a bystander the mess that he had helped create. He took a shuddering breath, nodding once. "I'll do whatever I have to," he said quietly.


End file.
